Lucian
by Lucrece01
Summary: I consider wishing that he would die and I'd finally be rid of him, the curse of him, this madness that drags me down to hell and burns me red-I consider dying but I would end up in hell and I know that he'd be there. LM/HG, MLC
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I hope that this fanfic lives up to my expectations and yours.**

 **I'm sorry for starting so many things at the same time and it is unfortunate that I have to put some of them on hold. But fear not, I will finish them. Expect regular updates to Reckless and Shadowheart. The other three, Melancholia, Scarring and Invictus are temporarily on hold until I can find inspiration.**

 **This is going to be a dark fic-violent, vindictive, and a lot of things. I planned it for a week and only now I have begun to write it. This will be a fic on my priority list, too, so I will probably write this before I do others.**

 **I hope you like it. Lucius and Hermione are quite unusual, and call me crazy, but this is what I wanted to write so here it is. Please don't hesitate to criticise or praise. I am grateful for both. And I will reply to each review with a PM from now on.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

"My name is Hermione Jean Granger," I whisper, my lips barely moving. "And in this court of law, I swear to speak nothing but the truth."

The cold is insipid—it caresses my parched lips silently and I shudder in my seat.

All around me are people.

There's Harry, sitting beside me in the witness box—Ron and Ginny standing close to support him. I do not meet Ron's eye; we haven't spoken in weeks… ever since I decided to break up with him and moved out of our rented apartment… His flaming red hair is at odds with the black and grey interior that surrounds us.

His face—is reminiscent of so many scars and passions that I am forced to look away.

I won't look.

But there are others, people more distinguished, although no one can be more distinguished than Harry—there's Kingsley sitting in the judge's chair and there's Madame Unger, undersecretary to the Minister—and a whole bunch of people I have never laid my eyes on.

The marble floor is black—so dark and shiny that I can catch my reflection in its depths and for a moment I am besieged with this intense desire to part my lips and dive into its depths, obscuring, waning….

 _No. What am I thinking? I must stop._

"Please make your statement Miss Granger," the undersecretary begins to speak slowly, in musical tones that remind me of my mother when she put me to sleep every night. She has a fine face—a straight nose and full lips, large almond shaped eyes that give one the impression that she must belong to one of those elven races from the Lord of the rings. "And be succinct, please."

Perhaps this is what it is.

Perhaps you are absolved of your sins when you sleep.

And perhaps my testimony will bring me peace.

 _Who knows?_

But I digress.

I flinch in my seat as Malfoy's father raises his head. I am surprised at the serenity in his expression. His shoulders are hunched and his flawless blonde hair hangs fitfully about his neck but it is his eyes that are most striking—bright silver with a hint of grey in the corners lurking around with just a small touch of madness—that is how I see him. His dress seems refined enough; the cut is plain but elegant and even now, when all of us know that he is a condemned man, he seems to pay no attention to it, choosing to remain floating in his arrogance rather than beg for mercy.

His lips are a thin line, a shade darker than his pallid skin but it is his eyes that I go back to, again and again.

 _Haunted._

 _Haunting._

For a long time, I forget to look away and speak. The secretary coughs discreetly in her chair and I glare at Lucius Malfoy.

"Your statement, Hermione," she repeats with a touch of annoyance in her voice.

I train my eyes on her face.

"I declare before this court of law that the man standing before me, Lucius Malfoy, tortured me with a Cruciatus curse while Harry, Ron and I were illegally captured and held at the behest of V—Voldemort—in his ancestral manor."

I want to see this expression on his face—but he doesn't look my way.

"And why did he do this, Miss Granger?"

"They wanted answers—Bellatrix Lestrange wanted answers regarding Harry's whereabouts and I wouldn't give them any." My fingers caress the skin of my forearm idly. "She didn't know that it was Harry they had captured because I used a stinging hex to disfigure his face."

His wife still stands by his side, her arm resting on his shoulder. At my words, her lips purse in disapproval and her eyes narrow.

Draco is conspicuously absent.

"She tortured me," I say the words with such ease, as if I had not lived but merely read them in a book somewhere. Memory makes fools of us all because it teaches us that we can survive anything. "Bellatrix, that is. She carved my arm and—Lucius Malfoy offered to perform the curse on me because he had-—because he said that he was more adept at causing pain, pain that wouldn't drive me to madness."

I stare at the floor for a long while.

People around me speak in hushed voices. I wonder what they are thinking.

 _Do they pity me, for having suffered so much at my age?_

"Does the defence have any questions to ask?"

The small, wispy looking witch sitting apart from the rest of the crowd, closer to Malfoy, looks at me and shakes her head.

She won't even _try_ saving him.

Of course not.

"I see. Thank you, Miss Granger, for your time and trouble. That will be all."

The secretary marks something on the paper and very soon it is time for Harry's testimony. I shift to a nearby chair and watch the duo—Narcissa has been acquitted earlier, owing to Harry's deposition, but I don't believe the same fate holds true for Lucius. Apart from the fact that he broke under Voldemort's pressure and did not really participate in the final battle, there isn't much to redeem him in the eyes of the court.

I tune out the court, choosing only to study the couple in the silence of my mind.

It bothers me.

It bothers me that they survived when men and women much stronger, braver than them—didn't.

After all is said and done, I know that it is unfair for the Malfoy family to have survived without losses—oh they have their losses, yes, but not the kind that matter.

Like losing your parents.

Or family.

Or friends and lovers.

No.

They've only lost their Manor—and social standing, perhaps pride too—although I cannot tell by Lucius's haughty bearing in the court.

It is unfair.

His silver eyes are still serene. No doubt he still believes in the cause although the last disillusioning must have been—hard.

His face gives nothing away.

I decide to leave before Harry finishes his testimony.

He has bigger burdens than me but I have deeper scars.

Deep.

I try to drown the noise of my clicking feet as they walk away from Wizengamot.

* * *

I gaze at the empty spaces between my fingers.

The man, whose face looms above me, in the darkening spaces of my room, cannot fill these.

"You okay?" he breathes quietly and I can see sweat beads dripping down from his brow.

Love making is labour.

Although, I shouldn't really call it _that_ , should I?

There is no love, perhaps slight attraction and a little regard—but nothing else.

"I'm fine, George." I twist in my bed, slightly easing my back, and lift up a hand to touch his face. "Just a little tired."

He kisses my neck in answer, a fluttering, sweet something swirls in the pool of my belly and I lift up my legs, burying him deeper inside me.

"So how was the trial?"

He is caressing my sides, his untended nails biting into my skin and he touches something primal, something that is beyond my control or understanding and I gasp in shock, relief, ecstasy...

"Malfoy got six months of rigorous imprisonment," I say and disentangle myself from his grasp. "Narcissa walked free. Oh and they are going to auction the Manor next month—I heard Kingsley mention it to his assistant."

He grunts his response.

The cold air is coiling around my throat and I can feel it tightening its noose, reaching out—

Suddenly, he goes still and rolls off me.

"I can't do this anymore, Hermione," he says and falls heavily into the mattress, by my side.

I look up at the ceiling.

"I know."

What am I saying?

What am I doing?

I breathe.

In.

Out.

"Was Ron—there?"

"Yes."

"Did you-?"

I close my eyes.

"No. We broke up—remember. He doesn't want to see my face, unless it is necessary."

I can hear him breathe, his heartbeat slower now that he isn't—is this all there is to living?

Someone breathes and they are alive?

"I only call you when I'm drunk."

Since this is to be our last rendezvous, I have to be truthful.

"I know." He turns his head my way. "But you never told me—what are you trying so desperately hard to forget—we've all been through war, we're all scarred but no one—"

No one is as broken.

I know.

"There's nothing I am trying to forget, George." Another truth falls from my lips. Gracefully sliding down my tongue. "There's nothing-no heartbreaking story, no catastrophic event that broke my spirit..."

There's this disbelieving look in his eyes that tells me all I need to know—and why should he believe me at all?

Look at me—I would make fine study in self-destruction, wouldn't I?

"Then why do you—this—"

"—why do I sleep with you, a brother of my ex? Why do I call you here, every chance I get, to fuck and grieve—over what, darling?" I sigh. "I don't know. Why do you come?"

"You know why."

"I do—but, humour me."

He doesn't say word. Of course he wouldn't.

He can't admit to himself—his loss.

His brother is dead.

His shop, his work and his life—all lie in tatters.

Why wouldn't they?

He is unemployed, perpetually high on pills that he doesn't think I know of, and Ron hasn't spoken to him ever since he saw us together at Tom's.

I know everything about him.

And still, he lies.

"This ends now, Hermione,"" he says softly, and in the dark I can almost fancy that his whispers are ardent declarations of a young love. "I can't do this—anymore."

"I never stopped you."

He takes hold of my fingers and kisses them lightly.

His fingers don't quite fit in the spaces between my fingers.

* * *

 _Seven months later:_

"This has got to be some bloody joke, Kingsley!"

I scream myself hoarse at the man.

I have been doing that for a while now but all it seems to do is fall on deaf ears.

But that's okay.

It's okay.

I need to be reasonable.

I need to—

"It's not a joke, Hermione." He curls his lips in disapproval. "This statute has been under study for some time now and with due process of law, it has been passed with a majority."

"Fuck your majority, Kingsley!"

I throw the papers in his face.

I don't quite know it but I am screaming at the top of my voice again and people have noticed—even though Kingsley's office is huge and isolated—

"I won't surrender to this, Kingsley—you've got to be out of your mind to believe that this piece of crap will be accepted, much less implemented in the society," I say and spit on the ground.

His face is unreadable as he bends down to pick up the papers I threw at him.

A little twinge of guilt surges inside me.

When he turns to face me though, I can see his brows drawn together in anger.

"On the contrary, Hermione—the move has been welcomed by all thinking and well-meaning members of the society. It is the only way—don't you see?" He taps the papers with his quill. "I thought it a good gesture to inform you of this beforehand—but clearly, _that_ was a mistake."

Welcomed?

Accepted?

My lips part in horror.

"You're really going to do this?" My voice is small—a sorrowful squeak that doesn't quite express my dismay or fear or hatred.

"It is already done." He draws himself up to his full height. "As we speak, these papers are being published in the official gazette. Tomorrow, everyone will know. And a week later, lotteries will be drawn."

This is sick.

Sick.

They can't do this.

No civilised society would ever stoop so low; even to save themselves from probable extinction.

Sick.

"I see," I whisper quietly, a dreary storm rising inside my skin. "Be warned though—I, and many other like me, will refuse to surrender to this barbarity. You cannot force us in this. And I will contest this law as an infringement on my fundamental and human rights."

There's this crooked smile in his face that shows all of his yellowing teeth.

 _How have I not seen this man clearly before?_

"The law has provisions to subvert those arguments, Hermione. No amount of litigation would overturn the passage of this law."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I must—it is my duty to preserve what remains of this world, our world—and to that end, the greater good of the masses will overtake individual needs of a few."

 _The greater good?_

 _The greater good?_

What a joke.

I want to do nothing more than slap him in the face.

But I restrain myself.

"And what about those people who do not—participate?"

"This is not a choice, Hermione. It is a lawful compulsion. Anyone who tries to subvert the law or any of its clauses will be imprisoned, with fine, for the duration of his lack of participation." He lowers his voice and smoothens his coat. "And this, dear Hermione, is truly the end of our conversation. I hope to see you at the drawing of lots."

I show him a middle finger in my mind.

They can't do this.

They won't be allowed.

No one would accept it.

The word 'law' has never meant something so dreadful to me—it is such a mockery of natural justice—we humans can twist everything to suit our purposes and the word ' _law_ ' has just taken another disturbing meaning in my head.

If worse comes to worst, I will run.

Run.

Yes.

"Oh, and Hermione—don't consider leaving the country. We have traces on every witch and wizard of age, just for precaution."

My voice dries up in my throat.

Automatically, I remove my left shoe and fling it at Kingsley, hitting him squarely in the chest.

"Fuck you, Kinsgley," I snarl at him before closing the door behind me.

* * *

 _Day one._

"I need to check out these books—I know that I have picked up five more than my sanctioned limit but if you could just make this exception for me—just this time, please."

The librarian looks at me with an annoyed expression, lowering her square framed glasses slightly.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, miss," she replies. "It's the library policy."

"Look, can't you just—overdraw my account this one time? It's urgent—please."

Desperation tinges every word.

She must understand.

I need these—

She shakes her head, pursing her lips in disapproval.

"I'm sorry."

I stare at her.

I need them all with me.

I need them right now.

I haven't got time.

"I'm sorry too," I whisper quietly and draw out my wand. I don't want to do this but—

" _Confundo_!"

Her blue eyes widen in shock—and I feel guilty but I have to do this—she has pushed my hand and I feel—

Her eyes flutter to close and she seems diverted.

I had to do this.

I make my exit quickly, not looking back at her.

* * *

 _Day three._

We're in Minerva's office.

That's right.

She's the new Headmistress now.

My once favourite teacher.

And now—

"I cannot help you with this, Miss Granger," she says and another little hope dies in my heart. I hear bells—distant and deep and it feels like they're calling to me and I cannot—"I have counselled with the other high-ranking members of the Order and this law must prevail, even if it causes us—distress."

I have not expected this from _her_ .

I have not come to her doorstep just to be turned away empty handed.

"I don't believe this, professor—how can you side with this? It isn't right and you know it—what kind of a society would ever push its citizens into _forced_ marriages? How can you sit there, so suave and unaffected, when you know that this will mean an end to happiness, love and freedom for all concerned? How can you—"

"That is enough, Hermione." Her eyes flash at me and it feels like I don't recognise her anymore.

There is no warmth in her face.

This cannot be real.

"You cannot understand this because you're too young and naïve. It is a practical solution, Hermione, to the alternative of dying out as a race. I do not necessarily condone the methods that the ministry has chosen but the principle is sound. It is a small price to pay for survival."

I look at her in disbelief.

How can she say that?

How can those words fall from her lips?

This is a betrayal of the worst kind—I feel it my bones and a part me wants to lash out at her, scream at her calm demeanour and yell profanities—yes, profanities, for I –

"It's funny and probably naïve that I think so, but I was always under the impression that survival at any cost is a rather bleak philosophy," I say quietly. "And I thought that everyone agreed."

She says nothing and I know that this interview is over.

I have more books sitting atop my desk—I have become a thief after all, and why not? Thievery is a small vice, when compared to all this...

Not that I believe in vices anymore.

Or virtues.

I leave without another word, a small act of defiance perhaps, but it is only the small things I can hold on to while the entire world is collapsing around me.

* * *

 _Day five._

The doorbell rings.

It's Harry.

I hug him tightly, breathing in the soft smell of familiarity.

"You're late," I complain.

"Yeah—I was held up at work—listen, I can't stay long but—"

I wave off his protest and drag him to the living room.

He looks the same as ever—untidy jet black hair spread all over his head, kind green eyes peeping from behind his glasses and a thin lightning shaped scar dividing his forehead into two halves—I haven't seen him in weeks.

It isn't my fault and it isn't his—but we hang out less, and see each other rarely these days—sometimes I am suspicious of Ginny, maybe she has influenced him into thinking the worst of me or perhaps it is Ron—but I must be wrong.

I must.

He isn't the kind of person to be so easily swayed.

He's stubborn and strong and definitely not—

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says after watching me for a long while. "I spoke to Kingsley, and Arthur—Percy, too, but it doesn't look like there's anything we can do—not unless we go against the law and declare rebellion."

"I know." I run a hand through my tangled hair after handing him a cup of coffee. "I have run from post to pillar, looked for loopholes everywhere—begged, pleaded everyone but—nothing. Today is the fifth day. They'll draw lots on the seventh day and I cannot do anything."

He leans forwards, looking straight into my eyes.

"You could leave."

"I would but—Kingsley warned me against it. Think about it, the law would be a futile exercise if everyone who disagreed could simply leave the country. No, there's more to it than that—"

He tilts his head in understanding.

"You're not considering running, are you?"

"No." It's so surreal, this being with him in my apartment—him sitting on my couch like we did it every day and nothing is strained between us. Nothing. "But I have a year's reprieve—until my Auror training is finished. After that, I'll cross the bridge and decide."

I say nothing and look out of the window.

"And Hermione," he continues. "I know you think it barbaric and believe me, I do too but—"

"But what?"I say sharply.

He flinches.

"But this—I haven't got a great perspective on history but I do know that when push comes to shove, every government imposes decrees and laws that it feels necessary for the survival of itself and its citizens. It's no different from compulsory military service during the last war, is it?"

" _Oh_ _you think it isn't different? You think it justified?_ Let me remind you, Harry, that military conscription is just for a short period of time, for the duration of war or less, or until you die—not something that would affect one's present and future in every excruciating detail—this is madness, and I hate it that no one sees it for what it is. Back in our world, _no government,_ however strong, would be able to push through such legislation. And what's more, citizens wouldn't stand back and let the government do whatever it wants in the name of survival."

I am gnashing my teeth at him, my best friend.

" _But they haven't faced such a situation, have they?"_ he retorts, more forcefully. "And believe you me; they would be just as ruthless and emphatic if they were confronted with this kind of situation. Besides, _this_ is our world, Hermione, or have you forgotten? Have you forgotten that you fought for it too? Or maybe you're hell bent on destroying yourself and every one along with you, like you did Ron!"

He hates me.

I can see it in his eyes.

But he cannot hate me.

Why does he hate me?

He's Harry, one of my best friends.

Ron.

He cannot hate me.

"Don't bring it up now, Harry." I murmur softly.

"Why wouldn't I, Hermione? He was the victim, wasn't he? You were using and cheating on him from start—you didn't even have the courage to tell him that—do you know what that makes you? _A coward_!" He stands up abruptly and grabs my arms. "You're one of my best friends. _Can't you see what you're doing to yourself?"_

I clamp my mouth shut before I say something that I will regret.

Ronald?

"Do you know something, Harry, you're my best friend too—and I see you standing here you don't even sympathise with my plight—you—do you know what that makes you?"

"I see everything!" he says vehemently, cupping my chin. "I know how disgusting the law is, I know how much pain it will cause to you and everyone involved and I also see that it's _wrong_ —but my wishing won't change the reality. We've fought a bloody war together, Hermione—we made sacrifices, some more than others—and I'm not going to watch this world, _our world_ , die because we were too squeamish to make more sacrifices."

Something else breaks, a loud crash and thunder—and I swallow.

"You should go," I murmur gently. "Go. I'll deal with it myself—"

"Hermione—"

"Just go, Harry."

* * *

 _Day 7_

The wind lashes at my skin and I have to turn my head.

I have not read the paper today. It lies on the floor, rolled as delivered.

I have not taken a bath even though it is almost afternoon.

I haven't eaten or had a drink—what does it matter anyway?

But I have this glass of wine in my hand, the swirling magenta liquid that is so inviting and lovely to behold—

And I have this envelope on the window sill, from the Ministry, dictating my fate.

I have half a mind to throw it into the dustbin and go back to bed.

But that won't do.

I need to know what's coming.

I need to know who's been chosen for me, not that it would matter much—

Not to me.

I look at the bare walls in my apartment—walls that I have blackened with charcoal drawings and writings—and I see my soul bared, stamped upon these naked walls, for everyone to see if they would only look.

But they don't.

And I cannot blame them.

I take a small sip and fling the glass out of the window.

A distant crash tells me that it has landed on the gravel, down in the street below.

A few passers-by look up, in anger and disapproval, but I slam my window shut and tear away at the envelope.

I skip everything.

I skip every letter.

I have studied the law until my eyes were red and sore—it cannot hold any surprises for me.

And so, my eyes skim the surface and land on the one name written therein that would seal my fate-

It is dark and indented, blotched with ink here and there as if it has been written in hurry, which it probably has, and it looks so unremarkable—almost normal.

But there is nothing normal about the name—or the person it belongs to.

 _ **Lucius Malfoy**_

* * *

 _ **I hope you liked this chapter. Please review and tell me. And I need a beta-so if anyone is interested, please let me know. R &R. **_

_**Love,**_

 _ **Lucrece.**_


	2. Chapter 2

"You have to help me, Neville—this is—not—Lucius Malfoy is married, right? I won't even talk about how he is an ex-convict, a former Death Eater, and that he was personally responsible for assaulting me." I lean across the small table. "He's married. And there is a clause in the Law which says that married people are exempt. _How could this have happened?"_

Neville, who has joined the Ministry recently, shakes his head and pulls out a roll of parchment from under his cloak. He's still plump, with kindness written all over his plain features, and I am so glad that he's answered my letter swiftly.

My Patronus has—faded of late.

"Actually, Hermione, I searched through the files of my department—about couples who've been registered to be married under the Law—and I went through Lucius Malfoy's file as soon as I got your letter." His eyebrows draw together in thought or pity, I cannot say which, and he holds my gaze. "He's not married. His wife and he separated right after the war."

I am shocked.

I saw them—I saw him and Narcissa at the trial—I saw how she looked at him.

No. That is impossible.

"But—if they divorced right after the war, why was she by his side at the trial? I saw them, Neville—they were like this." I make a knot out of my fingers. "And why did it never get out? I mean—notorious they might be, and definitely hated universally, but no newspaper would ignore a story such as this, would they?"

 _What am I doing?_

 _What the fuck do I care if they hid their divorce or why the newspapers have been ignoring them all these months!_

I am asking all the wrong questions. But perhaps this is a side effect. Or a coping mechanism for the situation I find myself in.

The only knowledge I should be drawing from all this is that Lucius Malfoy isn't married.

"I don't know, Hermione—they just kept it really quiet, I suppose. And as far as the divorce is concerned, I think they only got it to save their money and assets." He scans the paper he's holding. "The terms of the divorce are such that Narcissa got almost everything in the settlement."

I have a sinking, shrunken feeling in my heart as I look at him. It happens to me so very often now, this horrendous feeling of suffocating in open spaces, of drowning in light and desperately hating the walls that I can feel are closing around me every now and then.

I imagine a wave crashing down on the pavement and I shut my eyes briefly.

 _Hide yourself._

"Hermione?"

"Yes."

"Are you—is something wrong, apart from Malfoy?"

I want to weep and tell him everything, right here, right now.

"No, of course not. What were you saying?"

He doesn't seem to believe me at first but when I smile, his expression clears up.

 _Naïve, kind, sweet Neville_.

"Well, I was saying that the Malfoys got divorced so that they could keep their property and wealth, that's all."

"And since Narcissa was acquitted of all charges, they couldn't confiscate her property. They did auction the Manor though, didn't they?"

"Yes. But that is a different case entirely—V—oldemort used it as a base. It couldn't have been allowed to remain with them."

"Sure."

And now, I am breathing again.

Softly at first.

And then harder.

"What can I do, Neville?" My voice shakes so much that I don't think I can keep up this facade. I don't want to hear my voice anymore. "They can't do this to me—anyone else, I would've—they can't do this to me."

He rises from his seat and pulls me into a hug.

It is warm—so very warm and genuine—the first I have had in a long time and I cling to it like a drowning woman clinging to a floating straw.

"Go for an appeal. It closes the day after tomorrow—go today. I'll come with you if you like." He pats the back of my head lightly. "I know the lady in charge there—her name is Melissa. She's nice—she'll listen to you."

I draw back from his embrace.

"Thanks, but you don't need to come. I'll go alone."

"But—"

"I'll go alone," I say firmly as I fumble with my purse and pull out two sickles—my half of the bill. "Don't worry; I think I can handle an appeal."

He looks worried.

And pained.

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave the coffee shop.

It hits me suddenly as I step out on the pavement—I didn't ask him about his registration for marriage—he's in the same soup as me—and everyone else.

A twinge of guilt and I brush it off.

I suppose I didn't care enough to ask.

* * *

I bite my knuckles frantically.

He's pacing in front of me, out in the waiting room.

I am surrounded by so many people out here.

 _Draco Malfoy_ is pacing the floor frantically.

His father isn't here. That's good. If I can get rid of this entire situation without having to face him, I would thank my stars.

I bite my knuckles and watch another couple being ushered into the Appeals room.

Draco Malfoy doesn't even look up.

His face is haggard—and pale, as usual. It is marred by a deep frown and his silver eyes look empty.

He hasn't even noticed that I'm here too.

And he's still pacing.

" _Will you stop that_?" I snap at him, unable to take it any longer. "Just stop."

He stops.

" _Granger?_ What are you doing here?"

And suddenly, I am looking directly into his eyes, so devoid of warmth or feeling and painted with utter dejection.

"What do you think?" I ask sarcastically. "I mean, what could a single, adult female, recently a victim of the government's hegemonic Marriage Law, be doing in the Appeals department of the same Law?"

He doesn't say a thing.

I mean, what could he possibly say?

We're all victims here, victims of a society that we created, and we're all going to sink together in this madness.

I wonder who it is that he's appealing against and on what grounds?

"Whom did you get fixed up with, Malfoy?" I ask curiously. I want to know which poor girl would have the misfortune of ending up with him in wedded bliss.

"None of your business," comes his curt reply. I shrug, ready to drown into my morbid thoughts once again, but he plops down into a chair next to me.

He's close enough for me to smell him.

"Whom are you appealing against?" he repeats my question.

I tilt my head and run my fingers through the curls.

"That's none of your business," I mimic his reply and it is amusing to see him get annoyed. "Seen your father lately?"

His face turns a strange shade of crimson but he doesn't say anything.

"Oh come on, Draco—silence was never your strong suit," I say slowly, intent upon getting a rise out him. It would be like a strange relief—some sort of twisted retribution if I can only get him to snap. It won't even be hard. "So let's hear the story of why Draco Malfoy, _heir_ to the _Malfoy throne,_ hasn't seen his father in a long time. In fact, you weren't even there at his trial, were you? You remember, of course—the one where they sent him to Azkaban for being a Dark Wizard, a perpetrator of crimes against humanity, and a disgusting person in general."

He's looking at the floor as I speak.

He can't do this.

He cannot keep quiet and accept my jibes, so meekly that it almost makes me feel guilty for goading him.

I won't let him.

"What, you're not going to defend your own father, Draco? _Nothing_? Not even a bloody lie from that slimy tongue of yours?" I chuckle harshly.

"Shut up, Granger," he gnashes his teeth and gets up as the attendant calls out his name and I am left to my own devices.

He doesn't come out of the room though and when the lady announces my name; I walk inside with shaking legs.

They can't do this to me.

I can't let them.

 _And yet, what choice do I have?_

* * *

"Please be seated, Miss Granger. I have your papers here and I see that you're appealing against your marriage to one Lucius Malfoy?"

I slide into the leather seat in front of her and nod. She's a middle aged woman, plump and fair—with auburn hair tied behind her in a bun. Her forehead is sweating profusely and I wonder what it might be like for her, to have to deal with agitated citizens like me.

"Yes," I say. "I am appealing on four counts: a history of torture and assault against my person, our mutual enmity prior to and during the war, his history as a Death Eater and the large age gap between us."

The woman raises her eyebrow at me and sucks the end of her quill.

I am terrified and nervous, to be at the mercy of someone you don't even know—and to know that any moment a simple mark from her quill could destroy me utterly.

"Please relax, dear." She must have noticed my countenance and she offers me a glass of water.

"No, thank you," I refuse with deference, perhaps it is the self serving instinct in me that's reaching out. I would grovel at her feet to get out of this arrangement if it would do any good.

I sit silently as she goes through my forms, making a mark here and there, pausing to shake her head now and then.

Finally, she looks up at me with pity in her eyes and my heart stops.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger, but your appeal cannot be approved."

" _What? Why not?"_ I cry out, grabbing the edges of my armrest. "Surely, out of the many people sitting in your waiting room, no one can have more cause for rescinding this match than me!"

I cringe at the loudness of my voice, a voice that is brittle and breaking, a voice that a caged animal would make.

"Indeed, madam, I sympathise with your plight. But according to the stipulations under the Law, you're not eligible for an appeal. It seems from our records that you were absent at the drawing of lots, during which you could have easily protested the Ministry's choice but you did not. You absence is assumed to be an indicator of the fact that you have no objection to the Ministry's choice of a suitor for you."

I want to make some kind of sound but every noise has died in my throat.

 _Technicality? They are refusing me appeal on technicality?_

And still, I cannot speak.

"I am sorry for the same, Miss Granger, but I cannot help you," she says in a mournful voice and I feel the bitterness of my heart creep up in my eyes.

"I am sorry too," I say quietly and steel myself for an onslaught of emotions—that terrifying cornucopia of dread and depression, the bleakness of my thought s and the impossible turn my life has taken.

 _I am sorry too_.

* * *

I always thought that a woman's wedding day was supposed to be special, a glorious moment that she would share with her beloved and her family and friends. I have never been romantic, nor have I planned my wedding day since I was a little girl, like most girls do.

But I had hoped for love.

And I had hoped for peace.

"Please repeat after me, Miss Granger," the Ministry appointed priest says softly, not unkindly. "I take thee, Lucius Malfoy, to be my wedded husband…."

He trails off, invoking Gods and Demons perhaps, I care not which. And I have stopped listening to him. But my lips move of their own accord, as if in reflex, and I lift up my eyes for the first time to look at him.

 _Him_.

Flashes of light and searing pain cross my mind.

I would invoke my demons and set them free if only they would devour the man who stands before me.

His face is white, almost translucent, and glassy—its surface shines like he is made of hard, polished marble and he looks down his nose at me. There's no expression in his face and I can only assume what he's thinking. Perhaps he loathes himself for touching my skin, my filthy, tainted skin as he holds my hand while I recite the priest's vows. Not a single hair on his head is out of place. His grey eyes are unreadable, narrowed at corners, and his lips are curled in disdain—all of this I have anticipated and I hold my heart in a cage of stone as I look into his eyes.

And I imagine that there's a cold storm lurking behind his glassy eyes, a storm that promises retribution for every word I utter, for every breath that I draw—for my mere existence.

I wonder what he sees written on my face. I cannot hide my nervousness and pain, certainly not my horror and disgust at being—Ron always said I had expressive eyes, and maybe he sees everything written on my soul through my eyes—my rage, my desperation and most of all, the shreds of my will to life, falling all around us like confetti in celebration of my fall.

And his.

 _Perhaps his too._

And soon enough, the priest is finished.

I haven't even heard him speak but he must have said something.

"Congratulations to both of you. The Ministry wishes you wedded bliss and a long happy life," the priest says, ushering us out of the door. There are many other couples waiting to tie the proverbial knot and he must hurry.

My head is bowed in defeat as my legs carry me out of the door automatically. His footsteps are louder and I want to scream at him to cut them out.

I stop at the turn of the corridor, unsure of what to do.

" _I hate you_ ," those are the first words out of my mouth. I have my back to him. " _I hate you more than I have hated anyone, V—Voldemort included, and I wish that you were dead_."

He says nothing.

But suddenly, I feel fear beginning to clamp down my throat and my voice is torn from my throat.

Before he can say anything, or move against me, I take to my heels and flee the building.

* * *

 _Cohabitation is a mandatory clause in the Law._

I lean against the glass in my window, rubbing my forehead against the smooth surface as I try to control the involuntary shivering.

I reach out for another bottle of beer and swallow as much as I can—until my throat burns raw and all I feel on my tongue is the bitterness.

I should stop. I've had—more than I can handle and—

I see the road below. It is grey, bathed in orange streetlight. The few trees around the block sway lightly in the soft breeze. I can hear people laughing.

I have an appointment with him—I will call it nothing else—and we are to discuss how to go about this hideous business.

No grace.

I should be going but the glass in my window is so transparent and I want to keep him waiting while I take my fill of the world below.

* * *

I feel oddly light on my feet as I walk towards the pub where he—

I could have met him in a fancy place, expensive and delicate, but that would be his home turf and I am not willing to concede any space to him. Besides, my staggering steps would hardly be out of place in the pub to which I am headed, especially after the many, many bottles of empty beer lying on the floor of my house.

The atmosphere inside is stifling, filled with smoke and stench, and I am relieved. Not caring if he's here or not, in fact I privately wish that he isn't, I turn to the nearest table in a corner and deposit myself ungracefully in the chair. I signal for the waiter to bring me two pints of beer.

"Excuse me, but do you mind if I take this chair?"

I turn to see a young man politely pointing towards the vacant chair on my side. I shake my head and try to focus my attention on his face.

"No, go ahead," I say, waving with my hand. He looks a little like Ron. Okay, a lot like Ron. He has the same hair, a goofy smile and perhaps—

I look at his back for a long time before returning to my beer.

And that is when I notice it.

That is when I notice _him_.

Yes, notice is the right words because I can barely see him—he has his head covered in a hood and he sits across the table, staring intently at my face. I can't tell much from his posture but he's tense, very much so, and the hair at the back of my neck stand up in wariness.

 _Fuck him._

I don't bloody care; I won't let him intimidate me, not here, not anywhere else.

Not again in this life time.

I take another swig out of my bottle and look at a young couple dancing nearby.

"This thing suits you," I remark out of the corner of my mouth, derision dripping from my lips. "Hiding in the shadows—afraid to show your face to the world, Mr Malfoy?"

He leans forward and I catch a brief glimpse of his eyes, silver and stone, before her retreats into his shadows again and I shudder.

 _Damn you, Gods_. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be sitting here with this man, this beast that has caused me so much agony and scars—I would slit his throat if I thought I could get away with it.

As I take the cork off another bottle, he looks straightens up.

"Perhaps a more quiet place would be suitable to our—ah—negotiations," he says softly, and despite the loudness of music and the chatter of the crowd, I hear every word clearly.

"And why would I be interested in going anywhere quiet with you? Not for the pleasure of your company, surely?"

I would love to see his mask of cold politeness slip, so that I and the entire world can see the snakes he hides under his skin. But he merely tilts his head to the right and taps the table with his bejewelled fingers.

He watches patiently while I finish my next bottle quickly. My eyes sting as the liquid burns my throat once again.

"Are you just going to sit there and watch?" I slur, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. "Let's be done with whatever you've come here to say and we can both leave."

I run a shaking hand through the tangled mess of my hair.

Damn him, damn him to hell twice and back again—I cannot see his face and I am not sure that I want to.

He simply taps his fingers. With so many rings.

First. Tap. An emerald set in a golden oval frame.

Second. Jaded stone, silver.

Third tap. A large ruby set in a bluish metal.

And fourth—a simple band—engraved with the Ministry's tiny seal.

I close my eyes.

 _Oh God. Oh God. Oh God._

I can't feel the middle portion of my body—maybe I am just hungry or it probably has something to do with the beers—the tap of his fingers is like an incessant pounding in my temple and want to tell him to cut it out or something—

"You appear inebriated," he comments, ceasing the infuriating tap of his fingers momentarily but resumes it very soon.

 _What an astute observation_.

Alright, this is it. I am going to get up and walk out of the door. I will deal with him and the bloody Law some other time. I had gotten myself drunk so that this part of the conversation could be easy, so that I could at least bear his presence whilst I negotiated—but I had been wrong.

I have been wrong all along and the alcohol hasn't made this easier. If anything, I feel more vulnerable and exposed. And I can't think straight, a faculty that I need very much in order to speak with the Death Eater, especially in the face of his detached indifference and disdain.

I would almost prefer it if he were hostile and abusive.

"We'll have to do this another time," I say dismissively and grab the edge of the table to pull myself up.

My legs sway as if unattached to my body and I hug myself closer to the walls, creeping towards the door as quickly as I can manage.

I sigh loudly as soon as I step outside and the evening breeze hits me in the face.

My legs wobble.

 _Oh God_.

I take another step towards the alleyway.

Something is rending in my chest and I breathe hard.

 _Oh God I'm going to die._

And suddenly, without warning, I lose control and crash to the ground.

* * *

Hey everyone, thanks for reviewing, following and favoring. I hope you liked the second chapter-I don't know if I have done a good job but I would be very happy if you told me so(wink wink)

Please review and let me know where I lack, and where I don't. Cheers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

"I don't know what to do, Neville." I shiver in the window seat, watching the fumes swirl upwards from my coffee mug. "Every time I close my eyes only remember hate and prejudice—every waking moment I feel its sting. There can be no reconciliation—God, even the thought of living with him gives me the creeps. I just—this is a nightmare and I don't know how to wake up."

He's sitting at the desk in his bedroom, scribbling furiously. Apparently, I passed out on the street the previous night just as he was walking by and he brought me to his apartment. I do not feel guilty. I feel the stinging, throbbing headache and it annoys me but it is a daily ritual that I endure peacefully. I remember very little of the night before.

I remember very little of our conversation—it's always the same. The Euphoria. The Stupor. The Pain.

 _Drink. Drink. Drink. Forget. Forget. Forget._

But this is not a situation I can drink away, try as hard as I might.

"I wish—you would lay off that stuff for a while, yeah?" He scratches his head slowly and looks up at me. "It's not good for you."

I glare at him.

"You were not listening to me. I just shared my problems with you!" I chuckle and throw a cushion at him. "What are you writing anyway?"

His face turns an amusing shade of pink and he sips his coffee hastily.

"It's nothing," he says, averting his eyes.

I let it pass. _What do I care anyway?_

"So you were talking about—Malfoy," he says as he carefully folds the large sheet of parchment and puts it in an envelope. "You had a meeting with him, right? How'd it go?"

I stare at the wall next to him. His apartment is as small as they come. Ever since his grandmother died, he hasn't set foot inside his ancestral home. And with the economy in doldrums after war, the Ministry job doesn't pay very well. It's not my concern but I think the chapped ceiling paint might be due to rain-leakage. Of course, he could seal it with spells but maybe he doesn't care either.

There's only a single bed in his room and a ratty armchair that looks like it has seen better days, probably at his grandmother's house. The carpet is threadbare and the wallpaper so faded I can barely make out any colour apart from grey.

"It went—" I hesitate. "You know something; I really don't know how it went. I met him last night—I am sure—but the details are hazy and I remember too many… rings. I don't know."

I sigh.

He nods.

And we sit in silence.

He doesn't ask me for details of the previous night though and I am grateful to him. By this time, we both know how the stories go. I look outside the window and see a couple of teenagers making out in the alley. My jaw clenches. And I remember something.

"Neville," I say carefully. "I am sorry for not asking before—but whom did you get fixed with?''

He mumbles something but I don't catch it.

"Well, you could speak louder—I am sure my splitting headache could take another blow."

He bites his lip.

"Susan Smith."

I am confused. It is well-known that she's a nice girl and Neville had a crush on her in school.

So why does he look guilty?

"Well, that's good, right? I mean—she's nice and sweet and you like her… Imagine the torment of he who gets Pansy Parkinson." I snort. "Why are you so glum then?"

"She doesn't want me." His eyes are lowered and I wonder why the hell in the world someone would not like him. My heart would go out to him, except I feel nothing other than numbness. It's always there, like a long, biting winter that no fire can stop.

"She's not in love—well, neither am I but I am willing to try—I guess she's distraught over her boyfriend's death." He shrugs, as if he doesn't care. But I know better.

I look away from him.

The teenagers are still kissing in the alley, like a couple of—

"You'll figure it out." I say without much conviction because I really don't know if he will.

"Yeah well." He runs a hand through his hair. "By the way, I have some information on the law—they moved an amendment yesterday—it allows for review and possible dissolution in case of domestic abuse and assault. It was passed unanimously. Thought you might be interested."

My eyes snap to meet his and a sudden wave of excitement passes through me.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

If this true, and I have faith in Neville's credibility, then I could use this to my advantage.

"I don't know what you think I am saying, Hermione—I just wanted to let you know that you do have a way out if Malfoy ever tries to harm you. Not that I think he would—you're more than enough of a match for him."

I tilt my head and smirk a little.

"But I am considering going beyond that, Neville."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, that solves quite a lot of my problems, doesn't it? Maybe—I won't have to put up with Malfoy beyond this week."

He shakes his head vigorously.

"No, no, no—you can't do that, Hermione—If you harm him in any way, you could end up in big trouble—even Azkaban" He crosses the room and takes a seat in front of me. "And you do know that that would be reckless. And stupid."

Pain chokes my throat and I am forced to swallow all the anger, all that hate, all that confusion and sorrow—for I do not want to let him see me cry. I hate it when people see me cry. It only garners pity—and what good is that anyway.

"Neville, this might be my only chance of getting out of this mess—I have to try," I emphasise my words and squeeze his hand. He flinches. "And it won't be reckless—because I'll make sure I'm not alone."

"Hermione—" He protests but I look away and he never finishes his words.

The only affirmation I get is the returning squeeze of his fingers around my palm. He's warm. And I am a little delirious with excitement.

I want to plan this right away.

I feel a little twinge of guilt but I have grown quite adept at suppressing uncomfortable feelings.

What I didn't tell him, you see, was that I had no plans of attacking Malfoy in any way. That would leave a loophole requiring _him_ to file charges against _me_. Besides, if I end up in Azkaban, what's the point? Swapping one pair of shackles for another is hardly wise.

No, that would never do.

I plan to provoke _him_ into attacking _me_.

It should be simple enough—he has never before managed to look at me and not want me dead.

 _Yes, it should be easy enough._

* * *

We're all here, the veteran soldiers of the Great War.

The remaining shreds of the Order of the Phoenix.

I am early to the fortnightly meeting held in Minerva's spacious office. It looks the same as ever, quite like it did in Dumbledore's time. The only change is the decoration—or the lack of it. The huge desk which used to be swamped with instruments and trinkets holds drinks and refreshments. Seats have been arranged in a round-table fashion, as always—no surprise, covered in golden-and-red.

Only Minerva and Kingsley are here and they pointedly ignore my presence. My last meetings with both of them have left me sour and I have no motivation to strike up a conversation. One good thing about these meetings, though, is free drinks.

It's probably the only reason why I still attend.

I grab a bottle of Firewhiskey and deposit myself in a corner, watching the crowd trickle in. Slowly.

Harry and Ron arrive together, followed by George. Arthur Weasley looks harried when he arrives followed by Molly. Ginevra is conspicuously absent today, and I wonder why for she never misses.

My attention starts to drift away as more and more people arrive and the sound of chatter grows in volume.

No one pays me much attention and like always, I do not mind. I have my own plans to figure out and I like not being disturbed.

Ron sneaks a look at me and a flash of anger crosses his face, just like it has millions of times before, and I ignore it utterly. That probably bothers him more.

Minerva calls the meeting to order and Shacklebolt gets up, ready for a speech.

I move on to my third bottle before he begins.

"I am afraid I have grave news for all of us today," he begins without a prelude and a hush falls over the crowd. "As we all know, things have not been easy over these past few months—we've had economic downturn, inflation, and instability in government. We're still rounding up the remaining Death Eaters, and also their supporters who do not carry the mark. The law and order situation has been bleak—rising protests and riots all over the country—not to mention the recent fallout from the Marriage Law."

He pauses.

I watch him intently. It looks like he's—serious.

"I have news—from a confidential source—that not all of these activities are spontaneous. Some of them—like the recent riots in East London—are being guided by forces opposed to us."

I snort. _Loudly_.

Everyone hears me, including Kingsley who turns and fixes me with a nasty glare.

"I do not see what's so funny, Miss Granger," he says and crosses his arms.

I shrug.

"Well, I do. None of this is grave news, Shacklebolt," I emphasise his name just for effect, just to show that I do not respect him. "All of these things you mentioned, they are a general fall out of any war, aren't they? Of course there will be pockets of resistance. Of course there are economic issues. And of course people want to overthrow your government, with its wonderful record. Of course they rioted against your laws limiting work opportunities and the sagacious Marriage Law. Hell, if I had any inkling, I'd revolt against you myself. But sadly, and lucky for you, I have no time. Or sentiment."

I know that my outburst has very little to do with his speech. Everyone knows it. But I can't take it back. People stare at me with revulsion and dislike, and I have grown so used to it that it doesn't prick me in the heart.

Kingsley stares at me but says nothing until Minerva coughs and brings him out of his thoughts.

"Right. As I was saying, before Hermione's rude interruption, my friends, is that there are reports of a new weapon—I don't know what—something that V-Voldemort developed—people, _his people_ are talking—his supporters are talking of its resurfacing. The details are non-existent—but if true, and considering it may be _his_ creation—we must be on guard and make sure a crisis does not develop."

I frown.

A weapon.

Kingsley looks at me once again and I meet his black eyes without flinching, my jaw tight and my head buzzing under influence.

I get up and walk to the refreshment table, grabbing two bottles of Firewhiskey this time. I shall need them.

 _Disapproving looks shower me all the way on my inebriated parade but what do I care._

When I return and pay attention to the goings-on, however, I realise that Minerva has taken over.

"We realise that the situation is difficult—but we need volunteers to investigate this matter, apart from the regular enforcement agencies. Individual or groups, it doesn't matter which, but we need to verify whether these rumours are true or no. If they are false, all is well and good. But if not, we might just have a huge insurrection on our hands," she says quietly, fingering the edge of her sleeves. She looks weary. "And we are not equipped to deal with another insurgency. Or worse, war."

I'm on my fifth bottle by the time Minerva finishes speaking and I lean against my chair, trying to hold my head up.

People volunteer left and right and I shrink into myself, trying to claw my way into a hidden recess of my mind, a dot deep and dark enough to hold me in secret.

I have to meet Lucius Malfoy at night today. He has suggested an upscale restaurant in the Diagon

Alley. And just this once, for today, I have agreed. It would make things much simpler. If I must provoke him, I need witnesses.

My mind swirls like the liquid in my Firewhiskey bottle and I feel nauseous.

When I look up, enough people have volunteered and the discussions are underway.

I look at Harry, who's at the head of the line, serious and frowning in a private conversation with Shacklebolt.

Perhaps I have managed to alienate him too, after all.

I wonder if he knows about Malfoy.

Maybe, with tomorrow's newspaper, he will—I intend to create a scene tonight.

Willing my feet to walk straight, at least until I leave the room, I slip out quietly, not looking back.

* * *

The attendant wrinkles his nose at my shabby appearance as he guides me to Lucius Malfoy's reserved seat. He's probably wondering what I am doing in a place like this, decorated lavishly and running well despite a war, with servicing fit for kings, and he purses his lips as I sit down.

The Blue is outrageously expensive and I know this because I tried to get reservations here for Ron's birthday last year. That was before—

But, never mind. This is to be a theatre for my performance tonight. Not that I am sure of what I'm going to do. I am expecting my presence to be enough. Also, I can't think. The after-effects of this afternoon's drinking have left me rather light-headed and I have decided not to drink here tonight.

I look around and find a familiar face sitting three tables away from mine.

 _Draco Malfoy?_

His shocking blonde here is clearly the most visible thing about him everywhere he goes. He's sitting with— _is that Lavender Brown_?

She looks pretty, thought, and I really haven't much interest in her. So she's the one he got fixed with, and the one he was appealing against. It could have been worse.

I look away. I wonder if he knows who his father married. Yeah. That would really set him off.

I chuckle at my thoughts.

I look at my watch once again. I can actually smell how much I stink of alcohol right now. I didn't have time to change or take a shower after I left the meeting—but that's fine.

 _Why dress up for the likes of Lucius Malfoy anyway?_

I drink some water and tap my feet. Perhaps I would enjoy this place, its rich shades of blue and silver, the intricate floral arrangements on each table, the chandeliers sparkling gloriously and the soft violin music playing in the background—I would enjoy all of this in another life, with another person. But not here.

All of that is denied to me. And whatever is left, I have denied myself.

"Granger? What are you doing here?"

I turn and see Draco Malfoy hovering close to the table.

"Why, Malfoy, can I not dine in a place as fine as this?" I smile at him, showing him all my teeth. He was probably going to the bathroom when he saw me—and like an imbecile, he needs to enquire.

"No—that's not what I meant, Granger," he says quietly. "Sorry I asked."

Just as he begins to leave, another voice invades our private conversation.

" _Asked what, Draco?"_

Lucius Malfoy.

I clench my fist.

Draco's face turns pale at his father's voice and he turns carefully.

I am not surprised to see him dressed in shades of black and grey, with his straight hair bound tightly behind his neck and a multitude of rings adorning his fingers. He still carries a stick—it is capped with a bejewelled, silver skull.

But it is the distance in his eyes that makes me wonder if my plan is worthwhile after all. His eyes are cold and dark, shimmering silver, reflecting the blue of the ceiling.

Draco doesn't seem pleased at this address by his father.

"Nothing, father," he says, averting his eyes from his father's piercing gaze.

Something twitches in Lucius's jaw as he scans his son. And then he looks at Lavender over his shoulder.

"I see you've arrived with a date."

I can tell that Lucius Malfoy has used the word ' _date'_ deliberately.

"She's not my date," his son replies softly. "She's my wife—as mandated by the Ministry."

His eyes are downcast, as if the weight of his father's disapproval falls heavy upon him.

"You must introduce her to us then," Lucius Malfoy's tone is calm but there is a command in his voice. Draco flinches.

At the same time he looks at his father with questioning eyes.

" _Us?_ Mother isn't here, is she?" He looks around searchingly.

Lucius Malfoy draws closer to the table at which I am seated and I recoil at his approach.

"No, Draco, Narcissa isn't here." He purses his thin, carved lips. "I believe you've met Hermione though."

Oh no. No. No. No. No.

My face turns into a grimace as I shrink further away from father and son.

Draco's open-mouthed shock at this revelation is too much for me to bear. And even though it isn't logical, I feel guilty for his despair. Perhaps it is the revulsion in his silver eyes, identical to those of his father but so different in every expression of the word, that makes me cringe away further.

 _If hell is the punishment we face when we die, what do we call the pool of suffering we endure while alive?_

Comprehension sets in his eyes as they travel from his father to me and I can see the horror dawn upon his face.

 _The horror that I feel in my bones. The despair that gnaws my insides every single moment of the day—so much so that I can no more function like a normal human being._

"I—I see," he falters.

For a moment, I panic—I want to run away, to my safe place, to my room with glass windows for walls and drown myself in a bottle of wine—but then I remember. I am here with a purpose. Whatever happens, even if I destroy myself later, I will not have myself related to this despicable man for long.

No matter what.

"Well, I am sure that I don't want to meet Lavender," I comment, shrugging as I look at Draco meaningfully. I want to give him a way out. Small kindnesses. "We have too much history. So did you, right? But apparently the ministry doesn't care about that, does it? And I really wouldn't enjoy your company either, Draco."

Draco gives me a wide-eyed look and swallows.

His father says nothing but sits down opposite to me.

Well, that didn't work.

And taking his opportunity, Draco scampers away quickly.

We sit in silence for a while and when the waiter arrives, Lucius orders for both of us without asking me. I narrow my eyes at him but he's unfazed. He simply taps the table with his bejewelled rings.

For a long, long time, he simply sits and stares at me, his own face inscrutable, his penetrating gaze fixed upon my face and I shudder inwardly.

I feel awful—so small, disposable, inadequate and worthless—all these feelings have had a home with me of late but today they feel magnified.

"So, Mr. Malfoy—wasn't it a joy to see your son again?" I try to smile at his expressionless face. I must do this. "I know how much you must disapprove of his less-than-pureblood wife. What do you call us—ah—mudbloods, right? _Does it bother you that your famed Malfoy line will now be as filthy as they come?_ "

He says nothing—doesn't even blink his eyes at my words.

My words—have left a bad taste in my mouth.

As filthy as they come—I must make sure to break off this farce of a marriage because I cannot, in seven circles of hell, imagine a torment worse than this—to be—

The waiter arrives with a delectable platter of soups to choose from. While he serves us, I deal with my headache. Strangely, the encounter with Draco has left me wide-awake.

I

"And how about your lovely wife, Mr Malfoy? How is she?" I try again. "I do not believe they allow conjugal visits in Azkaban—that must have been a lonely time. Tut. Tut. Also, I hear that you lost your manor, and your wealth, and you honour—everything really—you're probably worse off than the worst dregs of the Wizarding world, aren't you? And still so _suave_ —I mean—If you had an ounce of dignity—no forget that, you never had it anyway— but let's just say something justifies your contemptible existence in this world, then you would jump off a cliff and save us the trouble of putting up with you."

As if he hasn't heard a single word I uttered, he continues with his soup, not taking his eyes off my face.

I am growing frustrated. I don't know what else to do.

 _What more can I throw into his face, other than his wife and son and his lifelong failure?_

 _So why doesn't he react?_

I cross my eyes and lean back.

My plan is not working.

And I am beginning to feel hunger pangs. But no, I won't eat his food.

"Could I have a glass of white wine, please?" I ask the waiter and close my eyes.

"You're already inebriated, Hermione—I would avoid the appalling spectacle to which you subjected yourself last night," Lucius leans forward and pins me with a stony gaze. "It is very unbecoming and disgraceful. To _you_ , of course."

I click my tongue at him.

"Well, then—I must become used to it—saddled as I am with you," I reply, hoping for a reaction but there is none. Meanwhile, my glass of wine arrives. For one frightful moment, I am afraid that he will snatch away my drink and if he does, as God is my witness, I would curse him. But he does nothing except stare. _Again_.

Frustrated in my efforts, I finish my drink quickly and ask for more. I don't care how much I drink today. Consequences be damned: if I must drown myself in exquisite wine to forget the tumult of this night, I will gladly take without regret.

After a third drink, Lucius asks the waiter to stop.

"You don't get to tell him to stop. I'm the one who's drinking."

He grabs his walking stick and stands up abruptly.

"It's time to go," he says shortly and waves me over towards the exit but I stand my ground.

 _Did I mention that this is when the alcohol hits me?_

" _But why_? If this is your party, then you must show your a guest a good time, right?" I stand up and lean against the chair for support. My voice is too loud and heads turn to stare at us. Even in the haze of stupor, I realise this might be a good provocation. Humiliate him publicly so that he would snap. " _Or is the fabled Malfoy fortune fading at last? In fact, didn't you lose all your money to your wife?_ Oh come, Lucius, if you're man enough to bring a woman to this fancy restaurant—be man enough to bear the cost."

Yes. Everyone hears me. I sway at my place—the lights around me seem to be fading into a mass of black spots. I close my eyes and lean against the wall.

Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I am ashamed of the obnoxiousness which I have attempted today. Whether I succeed or not, remains to be seen.

This is crazy. I don't need to do this. I can simply run—and run my life again. I will—

A strong arm suddenly grabs me by the shoulder and I am ushered out, stumbling, into the black outdoors. Maybe they kicked me out. Oh well. I can't—think.

But I can smell. And I can feel the fingers still biting into my shoulder—

 _Who…_?

"Let me go!" I yank my arm away when I realise who's dragging me away from The Blue. _Where's my wand?_ I try to punch, trip, kick—everything I can do in my wobbly state—but to no avail.

He drags me to a deserted alley behind the restaurant and slams me against the wall. The impact is hard and I can feel my back throb in pain. He heaves me against the wall and brings me to level with his face.

His eyes bore a hole into mine—such is the tempest rising behind them—and I am reduced to a whimper.

The pain is back—the memories have returned and so have the monsters.

" _I will say this only once, so listen carefully_ —attempting to provoke me into attacking you will not work—yes, I know what you were trying to accomplish in there." _He knows?_ His face, hitherto unreadable, is a tragedy in scars now—every flitting emotion, all that grace, aloofness—gone, and only a haunted, tortured, demented man remains. "It will not work, Hermione. I have no desire to return to Azkaban. So _desist_. Choose wisely and then act. I could make this situation very painful or you can choose to live civilly and minimise the disgrace of your loathsome, short life."

And quite suddenly, he lets go. I slump to the ground, barely conscious, as he flicks a card my way and walks away, disappearing into the night.

I shiver, barely registering the night growing cold as I hold myself in place, my arms wrapped around me, and wracking sobs echo in the dead-end alley. I can't stop anymore.

I cry and cry until my throat is raw and the cold has infiltrated my bones, effectively dispelling my stupor. After an eternity, it seems, I finally stand, leaning against the dumpster.

My wand-is in my pocket.

I close my eyes and Apparate.

* * *

Hello everyone, I know it's been a long time since I updated this fic but here I am and here it is, hopefully you like the chapter. It's going to get angsty and violent... but it'll be worth it.

Don't forget to review. :)


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